Of Wars and Revolutions
by GrumpyGraham
Summary: When the United States of America loses the famed Battle of Saratoga, the patriots never receive the crucial support of France and Spain necessary to win the war for independence. -Historical AU-
1. Chapter 1:  The Price Of Success

Rallying troops for the upcoming battle proved not to be difficult as of late, the morale of the patriots had been much improved since winning the skirmish at Trenton. Whereas before hand, the loss of New York City had certainly depleted the new Americans morale, a key tool very often employed by the famous General Washington, but as of now the gleam of pride in the eyes of the soldiers seemed to say that a battle had never indeed been lost to the much hated red coats.

The revolution that was currently being waged for independence had certainly taken its toll. Of course, the men did not look upon the fact that they may lose their lives in the upcoming battle, for any sacrifice was considered worthy of such a glorious cause. Although, ever since surviving the outbreak of disease and deprivation of provisions at Valley Forge, many outright refused to speak of death. The patriots had all seen their fair share, they said, and simply did not feel the need to discuss such disheartening matters.

The very air seemed tinged both with excitement and apprehension, the latter perhaps proving to be more prevalent. If asked, most would agree to the former, after all, why be weary of the British? This was, at least in part, the answers their vanities provided. Common sense however did triumph in some of the minds of the more sensible and they sobered at the thought of the losses at New York. It was known amongst the ranking officials that many red coats were within the vicinity, for both General Howe and General Burgoyne of the opposing army had succeeded in placing themselves in the positions that may very well end in the splitting of the New England and southern colonies. That, and the fact that they were both outmatched and horrifyingly outnumbered.

Understandably, those that were aware of that kept to themselves, quiet compared to the rambunctious youths chatting loudly outside the camp. This was quite possibly the last great effort of the patriots, arousing fear in the hardened hearts of those with such dire knowledge of the situation. Despite the gravity of the situation, one of the younger higher ranking officials hopped atop a makeshift stand made of crates, addressing the soldiers clustered around.

A mixture of poorly hidden whispers broke out amongst the men. 'Whom was this person doing attempting to get their undivided attention? Why, this soldier's no more than a boy!' and 'What's his rank?' were all commonly heard amongst the still gathering crowd.

Smiling understandingly, the stranger rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat for emphasis before speaking. "For those of you who don't know me, I am colonel Alfred F. Jones. I am not here to just command you, but provide support as a fellow patriot fighting for the freedom of our newly formed country." Several men could be seen nodding amongst the disorganized, clustered listeners. "I won't lie and tell you today will be easy, that you're guaranteed to make it to the end of the day alive. But..." He glanced and met the eyes of the crowd." I have confidence in you, confidence that we, the Americans, will manage to pull through this." The cocky grin spread so wide across his face as to greatly crinkle his eyes, twinkling blue and silently radiating certainty.

Signaling that the pep talk was over, he turned to a moderately sized group of officers and began issuing out orders. Alfred, otherwise known as America in other circles, sent a small squad of troops to protect the rear flank (secretly he believed that it wouldn't make much of a difference, his theory was the worst threat was the kind that you could see in terrifyingly large numbers). Aside from a few men milling about that had yet to receive their ration of bullets, the majority of the soldiers were prepared for battle.

A thunder-like sound could be heard in the distance -a distance seemingly all too short- from the stomps of meticulously polished boots on the soft, wheat covered earth. Orders were barked out from a superior, unfortunately Alfred had not payed attention to the name of said commander, and men frantically ran to form a line of defense. Since Valley Forge, improvements were apparent in many men, although for those who had been stationed elsewhere many blunders were equally noticeable.

While the process of lining up took possibly somewhat longer that it should have, the rows of gleaming bayonets were unmistakable. If one was to look upon the expressions of the eight-thousand men, he or she could easily infer that all the men held one expression in common.

Defiance.

America was no exception to this.

* * *

><p>The biting chill that accompanies fall could be even be felt through the fabric of his high quality scarlet coat, noted brigadier general "Arthur Kirkland" with disdain. While it was of little consequence, the brisk air blew gently at irregular intervals causing him to suppress a shiver. Cold weather was certainly not helping ease the Briton's already irritable mood.<p>

While marching forward, the sound accompanying the thumping boots and hooves was a harsh slopping of thoroughly drenched earth beneath their feet. The ground underneath them was gently sloped in some places, while other parts remained flat as farm land tends to be. Pine trees surrounded the battlefield, densely clustered in seemingly random areas. The sky itself was bitter, devoid of sunlight, and currently purging the somber clouds of rain. The scene well complimented the rising tensions of the people within it, thought England morosely.

Before long, the rebellious colonials came into direct view, standing erect and posed in formation. England met the furious glares with a calm indifference, simply awaiting the orders of a superior to be allowed to carefully aim his well-oiled musket and fire.

For several minutes, each side waited impatiently for the other to fire first. To some it seemed as if a few moments could last forever, and to the remainder it felt as if the time passed too swiftly. No matter the opinion of each individual solider, they stood an equal amount of time all the same. In the end it was the colonists that fired first, attempting to reduce the army of thirteen-thousand to a much more tolerable number.

In retaliation, the exceptionally trained infantry took the places of the fallen or injured, and shot those whom had harmed their fellow Englishmen. Being a cavalry officer, England was farther back from the brunt of the action, as the horse provided a rather sizable target. As he began to reload his gun by ramming down gunpowder and a bullet into the barrel, the red coats pressed on further, forcing the rebels back.

The front lines were frenzied, each man trying to reload faster than the man opposite of him. In that type of situation, being able to shoot before the other was a matter of life or death. Blood stained many men's pant legs due to wading through the dampened carnage surrounding their feet. The stench of death and gunpowder was overwhelming to the senses, the agonized screams beyond indescribably terrifying.

Still, the self-proclaimed Americans were hell bent on pressing forward.

While less determined, the British continued to force the patriots to retreat closer still to their camp. They men clad in blue and white had loss so much ground, and it was apparent without reinforcements there was no hope of regaining it.

England smiled, nothing more than a slight curl of the lips in an upward direction, satisfied. There was no doubt this campaign has succeeded. No longer any doubt of losing what he considered simply a civil war.

The British Empire never failed to be the triumphant conqueror. Most of all, he did not plan to lose to his beloved younger brother.

Still somehow, he knew something was amiss. For a reason he didn't understand, the feeling of happiness did not materialize in his heart. It was a strange sensation to feel empty while winning what he had worked so hard, and for so long a time, for. But before he analyzed that peculiar feeling any longer, he dismissed it and stifled the achingly familiar emotion.

In that instant, his horse reared on its back legs, neighing in agony, and the Briton slid to the ground. His messy blond hair buried itself in a layer of mud, and the auburn mustang also collapsed, eyes glazed with the morbid stillness of death.

_ Perhaps I deserve this, _he thought as his emerald eyes met blazing blue sapphire ones. He could not explain why, but he was not surprised to see the youthful boy he had raised. Fate was never one to be kind. In fact, if fate were also personified, he perceived it to be of the sadistic sort.

America, his brother, held a bloodied bayonet at his exposed throat, eyes brimming with righteous anger, the rain streaking across his face indiscernible from tears.


	2. Chapter 2: Fall What May

A deceptively young appearing blond rubbed blearily at his blue eyes, curling deeply into his pillow and promising himself some way, somehow, that he was going back to sleep after such a terrible night. Although the stupid light from the window __had__ awoken him from one of his many memory/dreams, he just felt like grumbling and cursing the world in general for the sun streaming through the window __early___ in the morning no less __and waking him up_.

Really, he knew it was just him not being a much of a morning person that made an internal rant feel so splendid. Another thing that sounded particularly dandy at the moment was a mug full of delicious, tongue scalding, coffee.

So he was faced with a choice; nice, pleasantly warm bed, or a tasty, steaming cup of coffee.

He knew he was an awful procrastinator, he was told at practically every opportunity possible by a certain grumpy Englishman, but this was just one of those days he definitely could not afford slacking or any other form of messing up. And so, after an amount of fumbling for a simple pair of glasses, he shook off the linen covers and got to his feet unceremoniously.

While waiting for the coffee water to come to a boil (he figured he could spare a few of the rationed coffee grinds for__this__particular morning), America spared a glance out the window to see that it was now late enough now that the puffs of smoke from the nearby factories were beginning to clog the air, and from experience he knew it must be tinging the air with an unhealthy smell of scattered dust and unknown items burning.

After turning his head back around, he spotted the tell-tale signs of rising bubbles in the pot on the stove, readied the mug, and began to prepare the rather scarce beverage. While working he hummed an upbeat tune (which may or may not have been a war song, he couldn't be bothered to remember properly) as he poured and mixed sugar into the thick glass cup. Once the coffee had lowered to a more reasonable temperature, he cautiously took a sip. Not as sweet as he would like, but it would do seeing as the sugar was also rationed for the time being.

Mug in hand, he grabbed his keys and walked out the door, locked it, and then set out for his car. He could afford to take his common black Plymouth P11 out for a drive ; after all, he wouldn't need to be worrying about gas rationing back home for quite some time after today.

It had been a long while since he had left the city life for the more quiet, simple farm communities. At times he missed the refreshingly clean air compared to the upbeat, constantly buzzing with action, life in factory boom towns in the northern half of his territory. Of course, none of that mattered now, due to the fact that he would soon be taking an non-optional extended 'stay' across the Atlantic.

The roads were fairly uncrowded at this time of day, making it no hassle to navigate the streets. As he reached a red light, he tapped his long fingers repeatedly against the steering wheel in impatience. Before the green light lit itself, his stomach growled and informed him that, hey, he hadn't fed it this morning and that was just cruel. It was a shame he hadn't gotten in the turning lane, which led to the direction of the nearest diner, and now he would have to take the longest route.

He took an abnormally long time eating his breakfast today, especially considering how fast he normally downed an absurd pile of pancakes ( he blamed Canada for introducing him to the that golden syrup-y goodness).To be honest with himself, he knew that he was only lagging behind was because he didn't want to head to the military base. It wasn't that he wasn't eager to go serve his country it was just-

Well, he tended to believe he was mildly heroic in some way or form. He wanted to help people, _his people_, and keep them from suffering. Maybe it was selfish, this desire to stay neutral, to keep away from senseless killing; _but_, and there was always a but, that chance had been taken the moment England had joined the fray. Began fighting in what he had dubbed The War, a war that hadn't ever been expected,nor anticipated; a long string of battles that simply should not have been. World War 1, the war that was supposed to have ended all wars, now had a number tagged at the end.

Because there was another one, the one his innocents, were currently fighting and dying for. The war that had begun on September 1st, 1939, not yet referred to as World War 2, began with Germany's invasion of Poland, with the help of Slovakia and, later, Soviet Russia. Within two days, England, France, and other nations of the Commonwealth had again united against the German forces, declaring war upon the Nazi nation.

He remembered it clearly, being told that he would be expected ( but even he knew it was not a matter of choice) to aid the Allied Powers.

"__As a colony of the UK___,_" his older brother, whom was already beginning to show fatigue, had told him," __naturally you be sending soldiers, correct?__" Despite it being a rhetorical question, he found himself numbly nodding consent, condemning thousands of souls to enter the hell that is The War.

England's stay in his land had been brief, and rarely had he seen him during that short time, only felt his presence with his territories. "Organizing," the Briton had grumbled, " because you sods aren't capable of doing so yourself." His brother's words more often than not lacked any edge in them, mostly only tossed out due to habit, and England's comment this time was no exception.

Not even a week after, his sibling was returning to his own nation, leaving America to watch the effects of drafting and an all consuming rush to begin mass production of war supplies start as well.

And soon those soldiers, too, were gone overseas to fight, backed by both propaganda and a common sense of duty.

However, although once he had had his pilot's license (World War 1 issue) it had become invalid since then, and he had been forced to undertake the training once again. While the technology had certainly improved compared to the previous models (_"This switch does _what_?"_), but the basics were still primarily the same despite all the alterations to the designs.

From the moment he first laid eyes on planes, he had instantly had a fascination with the airborne vehicles, and when World War 1 had rolled around, he had been dead-set on becoming an aviator for the military. However, despite being plane-smart, he was incapable of passing the book work; after all, how does one study when their notes are simply pages upon pages of random doodles?

His aeronautics teacher often reprimanded him for his less than adequate grades, but well, he had no excuse for the man except it was __boring ___._ Dull study work had always been a no-go in America's book, so he entertained himself through doodling this and that in his note journal to pass the time, a habit left from his earlier days.

Although he wasn't an idiot as some may have claimed, the instructors must have felt his flying abilities outweighed his incompetence with book knowledge, and so he did in the end receive his military pilot's license.

Which led him to the present.

America smiled charmingly at the lady cashier while handing her the money for his last non-military supplied meal. Stomach now properly satisfied, he knew there was little in the way of excuses left to put off leaving the diner. Clasping his wallet and sliding the object back in his pocket, he did just that.

The air was pleasantly cool, not stiflingly hot or humid, an overall comfortable temperature for early Spring, at least in his occasionally less than humble opinion. However, the situation was less comforting.

__Keys. Get in car. Drive. Something.__His mind commanded, but his eyes stayed transfixed on the onyx vehicle. Rather frustratingly, every other muscle also remained unmoving. Across the street, a youthful short-haired woman looked at him oddly, obviously thinking he might have been planning on stealing the expensive car. Not even close, but it reinforced his desire to haul his behind into the seat.

The colony couldn't make any sense of his feelings, not when there had been no serious problems with any other war. At least, not on this scale. Every part of his mind screamed something was wrong, and very,very dangerous about the whole affair.

Dismissing his apprehensions as utter nonsense, he sighed and began to drive towards the base.

* * *

><p>Commanders these days, he decided, were complete asses. That drop and give me whatever- nonsensical-number-push-ups thing wasn't just an over exaggerated myth. It, to his horror, was <em>absolutely true.<em>

It wasn't that America wasn't fit, (that hamburger fat just didn't disappear magically, you know) it was just that being yelled at to grovel at his superior's feet and do whatever he commands was most definitely _not _his thing. Truth be told, his sizable ego could not handle the pressure very well.

Although it wasn't exactly willingly, he knew what was good for him and kept his mouth shut as best he could.

He was currently making his way to Britain by ship along with many other soldiers as he had to wait to claim his plane. The slower method of travel did, however, make sense; it would be more dangerous to travel by plane in case of the enemy approaching. Fresh troops being shot dead before their anticipated arrival would hardly be acceptable nor useful. So by boat it was, it appeared.

It had been a week since the last memory had interrupted his sleep, and he figured another agonizing memory would soon send him into one of his multiple fits. America had never fully understood the reasoning behind the haunting shadows of the past, but he had once had it explained to him by England many years ago. After the failed revolution had just began to settle down, already vanishing into the annals of history, his brother had attempted to make something important clear to him.

__England smiled wistfully as he sat back in the well furnished velvet chair," So you have finally lived through a whole war completely started of your own volition." The man crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap, speaking softly in an English accent."Perhaps I should have explained this to you beforehand, but is now of little consequence, I suppose."__

__The younger of the two, again a colonial, now spoke. " I have grown tired of you keeping information from me, England. On with it, if you will." The accent, while similar to the other man's, had faded from its British origin and had begun to develop a completely different sound of its own.__

__Before continuing, the Briton cleared his throat. " Wars are often prominent in history, but even more so in your mind. You are accountable for everything your people do, can feel their sadness,their outrage,their elation,their unity. When you shoulder the responsibility of those emotions they can sharpen your own, make your own personal opinions subject to , of course, already know this."__

__America nodded, still not understanding the point of the conversation and growing steadily less interested. " I'm aware of that."__

__" As I said, you are burdened with their past sins. As the representatives of our people, we are always reminded of that fact. Every grievance we have, we are forced to endure multiple times through the centuries." Finally, the youth understood, and ducked his head until his chin nearly reached his chest.__

__"You mean...repetitive dreams of terrible memories?"__

__The voice that answered was soft, as if trying to lessen the harsh blow of bad news to a child. "Yes, all nations undergo this at some point during their extended lifespan." The voice was sympathetic;understanding.__

__Silence filled the room, not awkward, but certainly uncomfortable. Instead of meeting Britain's eyes, America's focus remained on the floor. Being told you would relive your most painful memories for years to come was unwelcome news.__

__After some time, the younger sibling finally responded, "A-alright." The silence thickened, and while the Briton moved to stand, the boy spoke again, louder; more confident.__

__"That is perfectly fine, England. Why? Even if I ___did ___lose, I'm still , and always will be, proud of what I have done. I refuse to deny my past. I do not care if I am forced to lay witness to the war again and again, I will keep moving forward regardless of that fact!"__

__Now fully standing, England could not help but turn up a corner of his mouth. "Ever the optimistic one, eh America?"__

__" That won't change either."__

Lying on his cot, America shifted into the foreign pillow and drifted off into sleep, a content smile on his face.

* * *

><p>The stinging rain had earlier begun to cascade from the dull skies in sheets, unwavering and stubborn as the man standing before him. The Briton could see both the flushed tips of America's ears and nose, albeit the shuddering was likely a mixture of anger and frigid winds. He himself felt the icy claws of the chilled mud clawing at his own back, so there was no denying the pair were both miserable, though one perhaps more than the other.<p>

His sibling's gaze was as cold as the bitingly freezing weather, and he inwardly knew he was completely responsible for the boy's change of heart. Although, his ego did not allow him to feel any remorse at his previous and current actions ( for he obviously considered himself in the right), so he deliberately scowled in reply.

"I see you've finally decided to use the bayonet. As fine a time as any to make use of it, I suppose," remarked England calmly, as if commenting on the weather, although his dark expression said otherwise. America's somewhat thinner eyebrows furrowed further, but he surprisingly chose not respond.

The colonial looked exhausted with dark purple rimming the lower half of his eyelids accompanied by premature stress wrinkles. The carefree confidence that had once been so easily apparent no longer lingered on the familiar stranger's face, replaced by weariness. America had never been one to hide emotions behind a mask, and so his feelings were written plainly across the splotched surface of his skin. Also not escaping his attention was the younger man was leaner than before under the worn, stained navy blue uniform. The lingering traces of boyhood were fading from the American's features faster than England would like to admit.

America opened and closed his mouth, as if reconsidering his words. " You still don't think I can stand on my own, do you? Or do you just not want to lose your precious, money making 'new world'?" Any person with an ounce of sense could hear the bitterness in his words.

"Frankly, the answer to both is yes. You do not seem to realize that ideals alone lack the ability to build a strong nation. I would rather not see the colonies I had placed so much in destroy itself. " England paused for a brief moment before continuing to answer the other's second question. " You seem to care a great deal about the financial state of your people, correct? Surely you remember just why it is the taxes increased so drastically. The French and Indian War drained a sizable amount of my funding, which was fought for your sake, mind you, and I simply asked for compensation. Instead of that money, I receive a bloody war." For once it was not lost on America that England had deliberately half-answered the latter question.

The American's mouth twitched slightly upwards in one corner as if to form a proud smirk at the thought, until it again fell upon looking at the now destructed state of the field before the pair. The places where the front lines had once been were obvious, as multiple corpses from each side lay in the mud in various unnatural poses. But the original line could be seen far in the distance, signifying just how much sodden ground the rebels had lost. The fight continued and raged on, although it had become a useless struggle as the red coats advanced further still. His grip on the rusting musket grew tighter, until a creak forewarned that snapping was imminent.

"Ideals might not build a nation, but they create individuals. People are willing to __fight __for those ideals. People are what countries are founded on, and people are the ones that __impact __their own piece of the world."

The reply could scarcely be heard over the roar of the storm. "Ideals can easily be mistaken for foolishness. I can only hope you find your efforts worth it in the end."

America watched as the British forces grew closer, and lifted the edge of the bayonet away from the throat of the fallen Briton before turning on his heel and starting to retreat with his own men.

"Any action is better than doing absolutely nothing."

* * *

><p><em><em>Finally, it appears that the end of the war was in sight,<em>_ England mused as he pushed himself off the damp earth. But the triumphant elation from earlier did not resurface, and he simply watched America retreat further before again raising his gun. Time and much practice had made him an excellent shot, and he watched a man several yards away crumple to the ground, lifeless.

The mud squelched beneath his boots as he advanced, and he could not help but notice how few patriots were left. Even his brother now sustained a wound, it being easily perceptible even at a distance that he was favoring one leg over the other.

Before long, the patriots, one by one, began dropping their weapons glumly in defeat, making audible splashes with each musket abandoned. Each man knew just what this loss meant, and what fate would likely befall them. The losses had been great , and only several hundred remained to face the consequences.

Even the most ignorant of the soldiers knew of the prisoner of war ships, which upon arrival, the likeliness that you would ride the pale horse increased drastically. Most men that were infected by various deadly diseases die within a tragically short time, and would not be known to be dead until several days after due to the harsh conditions. The air there was said to be so foul from rotting corpses that a candle could not remain lit below deck. To make matters worse, it was rumored that the most terrible and abusive of the ships, the __HMS Jersey,__was in need of new captives.

Men had a tendency to be reluctant to admit to fear, as their pride made such trivial things difficult, but even the most stubborn felt a bit of terror, or at the very least worry, at even the thought of dying in such a manner. Unfortunately, it seemed that such fears were not unfounded, for it was now under review whether or not the men would be subjected to such horrifying treatment. After all, why waste ammo when nature can kill just as easily at a cheaper price? It would be wasteful, the men clad in red argued, to use any amount of resources on the enemy.

Attempting to fight off panic, America busied himself by searching the crowd for the only British man he knew personally. The simple plan worked well for a time, until he was forced to give up the effort as the other could not be found. Again, he tried to think of a distraction so that he would not be forced to stare at the distraught faces around him. Even the previous plan had been an annoyance, as some of the higher ranking officials were smug about their victory, despite not having fought at all. The self-proclaimed American hated admitting he was in any form upset, as he had a tendency to even plaster a overly bright smile when he wasn't pleased, but still found his mouth curved downwards forming a small grimace at the officers' self-indulgent manner.

His wounded knee continued to twinge painfully, and standing was becoming quite problematic. While several his fellow countrymen shared the same, or rather similar, problem, death was much more likely in their case, as without proper treatment their wounds would certainly become infected. Nations (as well as rebellious colonies) had an unnatural, yet useful, ability to heal quickly, so he didn't worry about the wound and instead 'took it like a man'.

He would later swear up and down he did not yelp every time he took a step. Most certainly not, a war hero never admitted openly to pain.

Some of the men beside him began speaking in hushed tones, " Better enjoy the rest of the time spent here boys, soon enough you won't be able to even move without touching a rotting corpse. All we have left now is borrowed time, wouldn't y'all agree?"

" I hope you lot are awfully touchy-feely, seeing as we'll be a tad bit closer than most gentlemen enjoy, being crammed in the __HMS Jersey__ like animals and all."

"What are you men griping about? When I signed up I was prepared for this. Yes, we may indeed be dead men, but I have faithfully served my country and am satisfied with what I have been given. Killing a few of those lobster backs was worth every part of he punishment, right?"

A less quiet chorus of "Hell yeah!" could be easily heard, and 'Alfred',their commander, also joined in. A small amount of the burden weighing on his shoulders lightened for a moment, and he smiled.

Now, he, too, believed he was prepared for all that was to come.

* * *

><p><strong>Even though it is a good deal longer than the previous chapter, I'm still unsure if I like it or not.<strong>

**I'd really appreciate some constructive criticism on this one, so please leave a review?**

**Also, thank you guys who favorited and alerted~**


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